


What We Need is a Working Title

by sallysorrell



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: (ace howard is my whole life), Asexual Character, Asexual Howard Moon, Asexual Relationship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Dialogue Heavy, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Platonic Life Partners, Platonic Romance, Queerplatonic Relationships, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-25 04:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4946926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard and Vince need to settle on a name for themselves. And some boundaries. In which Vince is his sunshiney self and Howard is worried that he doesn't deserve him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The shop had been closed for nearly an hour, but Vince and Howard had not moved much since, other than flipping the sign over.  Howard was still lingering by the door, while Vince watched from behind the counter, using his fingernails to scratch the price-sticker off of his newest edition of Cheekbone.  He had promised that he would wait to read it until closer to bedtime.  Howard had orchestrated a very important conversation for them, so he claimed.  Or had at least spent the whole day building up the bravery for it.

“I’m not the same man as I was when you met me, Vince.”

“No kidding,” he thought about making this into a joke about the former Howard’s death or kidnapping or something justifiable, but it was difficult to do.  It was distracting, the way this assuredly new Howard stood confidently against the doorframe, rather than swaying nervously away from it.  Vince caught his eyes for a moment, which both understood as an enquiry.

“No kidding, no sir,” Howard said smoothly, “I’m the courtship chameleon.  That’s what they call me on the streets.”

Vince tossed his head back.

“Ugh, I don’t like anyone calling at you on the streets.  Who was it this time?”

“No one,” sighed Howard, “Why, what would you do to them?”

Vince leaned against the shop counter, facing Howard but only occasionally looking at him.  

“Talking about my man like that?  I’d put them in their place, that’s what.”

“Oh, their place?  Like your place isn’t standing behind me, in this whole situation.”

Howard had forgotten what they were originally talking about.  As had Vince, who always somehow flitted back to it, like a confused little bird following a bit of foil down the road, only to finally catch it and find it empty.

“I don’t see why you have to have a word for us,” Vince’s voice was light, and he drew a line between them with his finger.  As he pulled it back to his chest, Howard caught himself leaning into it, as if caught on a hook. He stepped closer to the counter.

“I like to have things defined, that’s all.”

“There’s not a word for it; we’ve got the definition already.”

“So we’re working backwards.”

“You’ve lost it.”

Vince’s attention wandered to the drawer beside the till, from which he removed a half-finished packet of black licorice.  He said ‘brilliant’ to himself, offered one to Howard on the assumption he would refuse, and leaned back against the shelves to enjoy them properly.

“Where did we leave off?” Howard prompted, looking - perhaps too intently - at Vince’s lips while he ate.

“Holding hands, yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Howard, “if you don’t overdo it.”

“Cheers” grinned Vince, “I thought you hated people even touching you.”

“You’re not ‘people’, Vince, not anymore.”

All the reward and reassurance Howard ever could have hoped for was there in Vince’s smile, which he tucked away slightly behind his hand in embarrassment.  That’s how Howard knew he’d said something good.  Or funny, if Vince started laughing.  But he didn’t this time.

“It’s all about compromise,” Howard proceeded, “Just one of the chameleon’s many colours.”

“Compromise?  What shade’s that?”

“Stop.”

“What does it go with?”

“Stop it now.”

“Sorry,” Vince said.  It was an autoimmune response to the bickering, by now.  He recovered quickly.  “What about kisses?”

Howard crossed his arms on top of the counter.  He was close enough to kiss Vince now, if he wanted to.

“They’re okay,” he said, giving a verbal sort of shrug, “I don’t dislike them.”

“Really?  Even last time?!”

Howard had tried, almost successfully, to block ‘last time’ from his memory.  

“You can’t do it on stage, even if it’s after a gig.”

“Aww,” Vince pouted, “I waited ‘til the curtains were closed and everything.”

“You.. you rushed me.  Could’ve knocked me over or choked me or something. You’ve gotta warn me.”

“Like it’s some sort of terminal illness?  It’s just a kiss.”  Then, “Sorry, Howard.  I’ll try to.”

He returned to the stash of sweets, looking for something Howard would like.  He slid a Bounty bar across the counter, and Howard thanked him, all without words.

“Dancing?”

“Of course,” scoffed Howard, “Who did you think you were talking to?  I’m a man of rhythm.”

“Great,” said Vince, glancing longingly toward the kitchen, “Can we finish up in a bit, though?  I was gonna make tea…”

“Making tea,” In his mind, Howard backpedaled to this part of the definition, which they had already established, “We switch off.  It’s my go.”

“Then I’ll watch,” Vince said, content as he always was when someone volunteered to do anything for him.  But, at the same time, he was now out of exit opportunities from the conversation.  His face twisted between the two feelings, unable to settle.

After the third cup Howard slid in front of him, though, he made up his mind to enjoy himself.  It was nice to see Howard happy, anyway.

“What about, say, we decide to pull a prank on someone, and we’re--”

“On who?” Howard interrupted.

“I don’t know.  Naboo.  We’re pulling a prank on Naboo.  We wait until we hear him outside -yeah?- and then, when he opens the door - bam! - there we are in the doorway, making out.  Would that be okay?”

Howard was indisputably new at this type of thing, but it sounded to him like Vince was already pulling a prank.

“Something like that is that important to relationships?”

“Is to mine,” Vince chuckled to himself, “It’s all about the sense of humour.  It’s like a style.”

“Is that what this is to you: a joke?”

Vince fiddled with the teaspoon in his mug, stirring the mostly-empty and miserably cold cup of tea more than should ever be necessary.

“‘Course not,” he said at last.

“It doesn’t seem like you’re taking it seriously right now.  Like you don’t realize how important it is to me, that we get this all sorted ahead of time.”

“Ahead of time?”  Vince was surprised, “What do you call the last ten times we went out?”

“Just... ten times we went out,” Howard said, with frustration backing him up against a wall of confusion, “We haven’t changed that much, Vince.  We’re just calling it something new, now, and I’m not used to that yet.  I’m--”

“You’re getting a little too deep for me right now, Howard,” Vince interrupted.  Nothing.  He reached his hand across the table, setting it down well within Howard’s line of vision before reaching to actually touch him, “Howard?”

“Hmm?”  he looked at Vince’s hand, as it settled over his own.

“I thought you were a chameleon.”

He gave a single, breathy laugh.

“I’m trying to be.”

“I can tell it’s hard for you as it is,” Vince admitted, “But I know you won’t give up on it, because you’ve had your whole life to do that, and you haven’t yet.”

Howard leaned back, uncomfortably, but not far enough to free himself from Vince’s hand.  He liked that, for the time being.  He had never been any good at defining his own comforts - at least when Vince wasn’t around - so he always said no to everything.  There were a few things he was convinced he wouldn’t like, and he was still working up the courage to actually say them, even though he was fairly sure Vince would understand. He tried.

“That’s why I need the definition… I need to make sure we both know what we’re getting into, so no one’s uncomfortable.  I mean, you know that I haven’t… you know that I’m… that I just can’t.  I really care about you, but I can’t… er… I don’t want you to be upset with me, uhm, because of that.  Just because I won’t.  Sleep with. You.”

“You won’t sleep with me?”

Howard suddenly felt very lightheaded, wanting to sit down and forgetting he already was.

“I never expected us to have sex, Howard, but I was kind of looking forward to sleeping in your bed.  I quite like a cuddle.”

“So you aren’t all heartbroken, over that?  You’re-?”

“Look,” said Vince, squeezing Howard’s hand, “I could’ve left too, you know.  If I wanted to, I could’ve found someone like that,” he emphasised this with another definitive squeeze, then let Howard’s hand go.

“Yeah, I know you could’ve.”

“Right.  So you don’t have to worry about us, definition or not.  But if you want a definition, I won’t let you down.  I’ll write it out and tape it up on the wall in our room.  I’ll frame it, if you want.”

“I’d like that,” he said, staring at his teacup so Vince couldn’t pick up on the joy in his eyes.  Usually, this was followed by Vince squinting comically at him, and trying to discern whether or not he was crying.

“Good,” Vince said, “I won’t be a minute.”

Howard wanted to protest him leaving at all - Vince added such a warmth to the drab little box of a kitchen - but it was too late.  Vince had sidestepped out, but returned as promised.  He held Cheekbone in one hand, and the only biro Howard would let him loan from Stationery Village in the other.

He returned to his seat, found the most minimally decorated of pages, and carefully tore it out.

“Right,” Vince practically hummed, “Where’d we leave off at?”

“Pranks on Naboo.”

“Oh yeah, that’s genius,” he wrote in his neat - if somewhat frilly - cursive.  “So, cuddling?  Like if it’s cold, we can snuggle up together.”

“You’re making me sick, just saying that.”

“I won’t write it.”

“No, do.  I think it’s just nerves.”

“And what about,” Vince continued immediately, “instead of both trying to fit in your bed, we just trade for a double?”

“Trade where?”

“Naboo’s got a double.”

“Has he really?”

“Yeah.  Come on, we’ll do it now.  I’ll write it down and then we’ll go.”

“You’re so…” Howard began, as Vince led him up the stairs, “You’re so pretty, when you’re being decisive.”

“I’m always pretty,” Vince nodded, “but I know what you mean.  You are too; you’re ridiculous.”

 _Ridiculous_? Howard thought, as Vince threw open the bedroom door.  Howard rolled his eyes.

“I don’t think this is gonna work,” he said, while Vince lunged for the headboard of his bed, “We’d need to have room for all three of them to--”

“Shh,” Vince turned quickly around.

“--Fit out here, before we--”

“No, shh.”

“Hmm?”

“Was that the shop door?  Sounded like keys.”

Howard moved closer to the stairs, internally rehearsing his ‘please don’t kill me’ speech, which he was forced to give almost every time the shop had a visitor.

Vince grabbed his hand and stopped him, pulling him back into the doorway.

“I know that you know what I have to do,” Vince said, in a tone he hoped Howard would classify as a warning.

He bit his lip.  Vince took his hands.

“I do.”

Vince had definitely ‘rushed’ him, this time; he forced Howard against the open door.

“And you know that I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“‘S fine,” Vince leaned forward, standing on his toes, “That’s not in your definition.  Not at all.”

Howard got in about half of a relieved sigh, before Vince’s lips stopped him.  Probably some lipstick, too.  He would look later.

He had one hand curled around Vince’s hip, and the other buried between a few hundred layers of his hair - both were intentionally placed by Vince.  That was all Howard remembered, when he heard Naboo padding up the stairs.

“Ugh,” he exclaimed, stopping dead at the top of the staircase, “You can just ask me.”

He waved his hands, muttered something quickly and disgustedly, and stomped off to his room.  Vince was the one to separate them.  They watched their beds melt together, for every inch they pulled apart.

“Thanks, Naboo,” Vince called, “That’s genius.”

Howard stood quietly against the door.  He was still working on remembering to breathe.  The nerves had gone, after a brief peak where he considered passing out, if he could force himself.

Vince had already dug a jar of makeup remover from his nightstand, and set it down in the center of the bed to confirm it was sturdy.   _As if that would help_ , Howard thought.  But he moved nearer, regardless.

“Here,” Vince patted the vacant side of the bed, “sit down, relax, and I’ll take my foundation off of both of us.”

He moved immediately to what was now his side of the bed, where Vince welcomed him with a gentle, guiding hand.  Howard had never - in all his life - felt so comfortable and confident.  He was going to call it an eclipse, with Vince being made out of sunshine or something, and choosing to settle down with him.

“...It’s good,” he managed, instead.

Vince patted the towel against Howard’s lips, then his own, until they were smooth and clean.  With what was arguably the only demanding bit of his day finished, Vince sighed, stretched his arms up over his head, and then folded himself into the space against Howard’s shoulder.

“We can put the definition there,” he said, waving his finger too vaguely to be of any help. Howard assumed he meant somewhere above the headboard, near the middle.

Howard asked if he should stroke Vince’s hair.  He wasn’t sure what else to do with it, bouncing away in front of him as Vince spoke.

“Go on,” Vince agreed, “it’s the end of the day, anyway.”

He did, until Vince was very still and mostly asleep.  It was conducive to his thought process.  Very important.

“Did you decide on a word for us, yet?” Vince yawned, knowing Howard would understand him without making him repeat it.

“Yeah.  The word for us is ‘soulmate.’”

“Is it?”

“Think so.  Do you have a better one?”

Vince turned his head for a moment, just to check how Howard meant this; he had to look at his eyes. It was genuine.

“What about like, moon and stars?”

“So I’m a great lump of rock, and you get to be not one - but multiple - stars.”

“‘S wrong with that?”

“It’s a little bit cutesy.”

“And ‘soulmate’ is what, edgy and dark?  I’m your beacon of light, Howard.  I’m like a lighthouse, at least.  We both know that.”

“Sure you are. Don’t push it.”

“I’m painting it on the wall before you’re even awake tomorrow.  First thing, after your midnight haircut.”

“Right.  You’d be totally nocturnal, if not for me.”

“I was nocturnal cos of you.  Do you remember - back at the zoo - sometimes we’d be so knackered after a night shift, we’d get our sleeping bags out.  Like little children, even though we had a couch and that arm-chair, as well…”

Just as they had done back then, Howard fell asleep to the sound of Vince’s smoothest storytelling voice.  Only then could Vince relax, lean into Howard’s chest, and drift off to the rhythm of his breathing.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s a bit early to have your diary out, isn’t it?”

 _What kind of ‘good morning’ is that?_ Howard thought, followed immediately by, _Fair enough, I could’ve at least left the bed._

Vince had rolled onto his side and propped his head up on one arm.  He glanced playfully up at Howard, who sat against the headboard consulting his schedule.

“What you doin’?” Vince proceeded, seeming to nudge him with every unnecessary blink of his eyes.  He had just woken up, but his face looked perfect, as far as Howard could tell.

“I’m just crossing out yesterday.”

Vince scooted closer to him, and confirmed with a well-practiced and particular nod that Howard was comfortable with the proximity.  Fine, Howard’s expression said back, after he tugged down his vest.  It usually became twisted up, due to the restless nature of Howard’s sleep, and it required a different mood altogether for him to let Vince touch his skin.

“Get stuffed,” Vince exclaimed, leaning over the page, “You’re planning a _date_ for tonight.”

“Am not,” said Howard, trying to inconspicuously cover the words with the pen.

“I can see my name from here.  You’ve got to stop underlining it like that; it’s ridiculous.  And it's in red. That says 'date' to me.”

“It doesn’t say ‘date,’” Howard sighed.

“What’s it say?”

“ _Outing_.”

“That is quite good,” Vince admitted, finding Howard’s eyes, “More theatrical.”

Howard drew a line somewhere over the square for the day; Vince couldn’t tell which part had been axed.  But Howard gave him enough of a hint.

“Is it?  I was going for less, if anything...  Less romantic.”

Vince reached for the diary, and flattened it so he could read it.  

“It’s too late for that,” he giggled, satisfied with his findings, “There’s lots of things I could think of that are less romantic than the _flower show_.”

Howard rolled his eyes, and let Vince take the book completely away from him.  Vince held out his hand and waited for the pen, too.  

“You’re not changing that,” Howard warned, as he passed it to him, “I’ve had the tickets for ages.”

“I’m not changing it,” Vince was sincere, “I like it.  It’s just… it’s a bit posh for you, isn’t it?”

“It’s called culture.”

“Pretty sure it isn’t.”

“It is,” Howard said, definitively.  

Vince set down the diary, but held onto the pen, pressing the cap against his lips to emphasize the depth of his thoughts.  Howard said he looked ridiculous, and had ruined a perfectly good pen.

“Why the flower show?” Vince asked, doing it again.  Howard reached to take the pen from him, and he smiled.

“I wanted to do something both of us would enjoy.  It’s hard to come up with things like that, ‘cause of you.”

“Cos of me?” Vince was incredulous, “You say it all the time: that everything delights me, that I’d be just as happy living in a snowglobe, that I’m--”

He succeeded in snatching the pen away.  

“I wanted to make sure it was something you’d like.  I didn’t think I could go wrong with lots of bright flowers and - I don’t know - there must be cameras there, and plenty of people.”

Vince set one hand over Howard’s chest, fingers lining the vest collar.

“Those are all things you hate.”

Howard considered this.  Vince splayed out his fingers, then drew them together again, slowly, until Howard formed a reply.

“I may have romanticised it a bit.”

“A _bit_?” Vince grinned, eager for an explanation.  He could feel Howard’s heartbeat against his palm.  This was something both of them liked.  It rooted all of their shared moments, however ridiculous either one might call them, in reality.

“Yeah.  See I figured I’d surprise you - tell you to dress up in something smart - and when we’d get there, we’d just walk around and take it all in, with your arm in mine.  No need to say anything to anyone.  Maybe see the sunset.   _That’s_ what I liked about it.”

“You are _such_ a romantic,” Vince sighed, “You’re well hopeless.”

“D’you mind?”

Howard glared at Vince’s hand, but he remained unconvinced, and didn’t move it.

“None of that was bad.  I like romantic.”

“Fine,” said Howard, tapping Vince’s hand to warn him that he wanted to get up, “You’ve got ‘til eleven to get romantic, then.”

Vince scooted back to his side of the bed, reaching for the alarm clock on his dresser.

“What am I doing up before eleven?”

“It’s half-ten,” Howard said, and immediately had to assure him that was plenty of time to make himself presentable.  

“Smart,” confirmed Vince, rummaging through his makeup case as he moved toward the closet.  His closet, entirely, even since they began sharing the room.  Howard kept his clothes in the set of drawers which used to separate the beds.  Now it was against the opposing wall.  

“I just meant ‘don’t look absurd.’”

Howard stood and moved to the drawers to sort out his own clothes for the day.

“ _I_ think it means you wanted us to match,” Vince said, unmistakably through the fabric of his pyjama shirt as he slipped it over his head, “And _that’s_ absurd.  What are you wearing?”

Howard looked at the jacket in question, resting patiently at the top of a stack of mostly-beige complements.

“Thought I’d wear a suit,” he said.

“I should’ve known,” Vince replied, muttering something more about romanticism.

Though their backs were always turned to each other when they got dressed in the mornings - based on an old and silently-made agreement - they maintained a fairly accurate sense of the other’s body language.  Whether through _vibrations_ or something else, neither knew.  Nor cared.  They didn’t discuss the phenomenon; the point was that they did not need to.

“It’s not tweed, is it?” Vince proceeded, based on the way he knew Howard was looking at his choice.

“...No,” Howard said to the decidedly tweed jacket.

“I can’t match you if you’re wearing tweed.”

He could hear Vince sliding hangers about, swishing shirts back and forth to compare them.  He could feel Vince pouting at them, too, because none of them were quite right.  Howard wasn’t changing the suit; that had been planned and ready for too long.  Anyway, he’d gotten a new hat for it, and he quite liked it.  He wouldn't bother telling Vince that bit.

“Has it got those patches on it that make you look like a maths teacher?”

Vince labelled him a different teacher every time his fashion was discussed; this was how he knew it wasn’t really an insult.

“They are practical and sophisticated--”

“Sure they are.  What colour?”

“Red.”

Howard buttoned his shirt selection, which he had perhaps ironed too early, as it had managed to become slightly wrinkled during its time in the drawer.  He forgot when he had last taken it out to check it.

“ _Red_ red?”

“Burgundy red.”

He could not recall ever seeing anything burgundy on Vince’s ludicrous pinboard of ‘style inspiration’, taking up most of the wall beside the bedroom door.  But it was updated more often than Howard remembered to check.  Maybe...

“ _Burgundy_?” Vince exclaimed, in the higher register he reserved for inconvenience, “I need more warning for things like that.  Burgundy!”

But Howard could tell, based on the newly-slowed speed of screeching hangers, that Vince would find something.  He put on the jacket now, too, tugging repeatedly at the cuffs until he was sure it fit the way he liked it.  He wouldn’t have a chance in front of the mirror until Vince was completely through, and even then, he knew Vince would be begging to fix his tie, despite the fact he knew several different knots.  And had done them up already on every tie he owned, as evidence.

Clearly, Vince had found something suitable to wear, as Howard heard him setting out his makeup in front of the mirror.  He turned around, and stood behind Vince’s chair at what could only be described as the vanity.  He’d installed lights in the mirror and everything.  Fairy-lights, but still.  

"That wasn't that hard, was it?" Howard teased. Immediately Vince protested, citing his choice of shoes and scarf as the only remotely burgundy things he owned.

"And this is definitely more of a maroon," he whined, picking at the scarf.

Howard employed one of Vince's favorite inspirational phrases.  But he did mean it.

"That is the best outfit you've ever worn."

"Thanks, Howard.  We will match all right," Vince smiled, reached to turn Howard’s arm over, and inspected the colour of the patches. "Now, let's get your tie sorted..."

Somehow, Howard was always surprised at Vince’s capacity to be so intensely and sincerely gentle.  He folded up Howard’s collar - after untying the samples Howard had brought to the table - and left one hand to guard the back of Howard’s neck.  He was deep in thought, comparing the colours and patterns while Howard watched him and decided ten different times against offering input.

Amazingly, Vince dedicated more of their limited time to this than to the whole of his ‘look.’  Howard wanted them to go out looking nice, and they would, Vince was determined.  He kept his fingers over the finished tie for longer than necessary, just to be sure it felt exactly right.  

“Good?” Howard had to sound at least mildly annoyed, or Vince would be stuck in his sleepy and affectionate trance for the rest of the day.

“Sorry, yeah,” Vince said, “I felt like I was there already.”

Howard gave up on separating himself.  He reached for the new hat with his free hand, and guided Vince along with the other.

“Alright, little man.  Let’s go.”

* * *

Vince would never argue about being delighted by ‘the little things,’ as Howard called them, split between envy and dismissal.

It must have seemed simple, he convinced himself, if you looked at it from outside their relationship.  But, from where he was sitting, every moment and every interaction was new and exciting.  He had never been happier than that night he and Howard settled on calling each other ‘soulmates’ (though he had managed to paint the moon and some stars on the ceiling before Howard woke up.  Glow-in-the-dark paint and everything.  Genius.)

His favourite part of the day, at that moment, was the way Howard leaned forward in his seat on the train, brushing up on some book on gardening he claimed he’d read twice before.  It was a good angle for painting him, Vince thought.  He would have to remember to do a portrait like that, soon.  Howard would love it.  He looked positively Edwardian.  

This was quickly replaced by a new favourite, though, when they arrived and stood in the entrance queue.  Vince was approached by two separate media personalities, who naturally assumed he was someone important.  He loved the way Howard encouraged him the first time, for a laugh, and protected him the second time, when the interviewer’s questions became rather more personal.

Another contender was definitely the sunset.  They found one of the quieter gardens and settled down on a marble bench.  They leaned into each other, tugging at each other’s sleeves instead of talking.  Vince loved that.

And of course, he loved every single solitary petal he’d laid eyes on over the course of the outing.  He’d lost track of how many times he’d gone ‘whoa’ and made sure Howard looked at the right one.  

The trip home was fine, too.  Howard always got the window seat.  Vince kicked off his boots, folded his legs up close to his chest, and promised he wouldn’t fall asleep as he set his head over Howard’s embarrassed-at-beating-any-quicker heart.

“Was that how you imagined it?” he asked.  He felt Howard’s breath, as he pulled him closer.  It was rare for Howard to venture beyond protective and into achingly sweet when they were in public.  Vince guessed it had gone well, then.  Unless it had something to do with them having most of the compartment to themselves, where Howard could argue he was only being practical.

“Yeah,” he replied, after a long while.  Vince blinked happily, as he pressed their foreheads together.  He wanted to kiss Howard’s hand, but knew he wouldn’t take well to the lipstick, however burgundy he called it.

“Alright, Man of Substance… what was your favourite part?”

“I made a list of them, actually.”

“When on earth did you have time to do that?"

Vince could feel Howard’s shrug, which was always, in itself, unsure.  Vince clicked his tongue and wiggled one of his hands free, so he could search Howard’s jacket-pocket for the diary.

“Unbelievable,” he said, retrieving it and flipping it to the bookmarked page.

“Don’t you laugh,” Howard said flatly.  His lips were too close to Vince’s hair for him to sound any angrier.  It was too comfortable there; it was soft and smelled predominantly of jasmine - which Howard only knew because Vince had told him.  And it would be gone in an instant, if he managed to be genuinely irritating.

“Oh, I’m going to,” Vince promised, in a snappy but insincere voice.

There, in the margins beside the current date, he found the list.

  1. Vince looked absolutely amazing today.

  2. He introduced me as his partner to an interviewer.    
Right into the microphone.

  3. Walked around arm-in-arm, like something  
out of that Edwardian novel I need to write. 

  4. Didn’t need to say a word.




“You aren’t laughing,” Howard nearly whispered, after he was sure Vince had time to read the whole thing.  He was afraid Vince had fallen asleep, and immediately reached to collect his shoes so he wouldn’t forget them.

“No,” Vince said, “It’s too sweet to laugh at.  It’s like you fed me a whole circus-tent of candyfloss.  It’s great now, but I won’t be feeling it tomorrow.  I’ll probably call it ‘pathetic’ or ‘embarrassing’ in the morning.  Just so you know.  But right now…?”

 Vince realised, at this point, that they had more in common than he had ever considered.  

And that was his new favourite part of the day.  That, and the way he could feel Howard’s breath on his neck… and…

Howard nudged him away, as if urging him to pick one.   _Settle_.

“I have,” Vince said, leaning in until their noses touched.   _Obviously on you_ , this said.  

“Fine,” Howard said softly, voice stretched for want of sleep.  Vince loved it that way.

“When’s our next date?”

“ _Outing_.”

“Yeah, _partner_.  That too.”


	3. Chapter 3

In his latest protest, Vince had managed to drape himself over the whole of the sofa.  He stared up at the ceiling, folding his arms every time he thought Howard was looking at him.

“I’m bored.”

“Naboo’s been gone _ten minutes_ ,” Howard threw back.  He was skimming the shelves of his DVD collection, and urged Vince again to do the same.

“I don’t do films,” Vince shrugged.

“You always manage to come up with one, when it’s your turn to pick.”

“Those are normal nights,” Vince said, “Naboo’s gonna be gone for the whole _weekend_ , didn’t he tell you?”

Howard rolled his eyes.  He hadn’t.

“Exactly,” Vince replied, “We’re not wasting a chance like that on the dullest thing you can dig out of that shelf.”

Vince was, somehow, extra intuitive this evening.  Howard had settled on one of the quieter and slower-moving films, knowing Vince would give up on understanding the story and would instead fall asleep against his shoulder.  Because it was their night in together, and Vince wouldn’t sacrifice that opportunity, even over a movie he hated.

“What did you have in mind?” Howard said, hesitantly.  Once Vince, whose attention-span was easily satisfied, diagnosed himself as ‘bored’, it took something drastic to revive him.

“D’you know why they’re out for the weekend?”

“No…?”

“Basically, okay, they do this race every year for familiars on magic carpets.  So that’s all he’s taken with him.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, he’ll have left all his books and potions here.”

Howard moved away from the shelves, in order to give Vince the condescending staredown he deserved.

“Not with any of the serious ones,” Vince continued. “That beige book he’s got oughtta be right up your street.”

“Get up.”

Vince’s eyes widened, and he followed Howard into Naboo’s room, boredom dissipating with every step.

Howard only looked through the bookshelf after Vince nudged him toward it; he was determined to stay out of anything Naboo could blame him for breaking.  As with most things, Vince had the opposite inclination.  He dove immediately into a gilded trunk and scooped out anything that looked interesting.

“Howard,” Vince said, repeatedly, until he earned Howard’s full attention, “Check _this_ out.”

He held up what seemed to be a glass bauble, filled with water and dark glitter, dangling from a chain.  Vince tilted it one way, to indicate there was something more exciting in the middle, which could only be seen once the clouds of glitter had settled.  

“What’s that?”

“Well,” Vince said, “I was trying to read the square in the middle, but that’s impossible.  I think the letters are changing.  Come look.”

“In a minute,” Howard paused to remove his choice of book from the shelf.  The spine said ‘beginner’ very clearly, and something else miserably smudged out, and he thought that was a safe place to start.  

Vince held the chain up at each side of his neck.

“Wha’d’ya reckon?”

“...Why?”

“It’s so interesting,” Vince was pleased with his discovery, and clasped it around his neck.

There was a startling crash of thunder, followed by a bolt of lightning that seemed to split the bedroom window down the middle.  Howard jumped back at first, but tried to recover.

“Did that… do that?”

Vince held it up, but this only turned the letters upside-down.  

“Dunno.”

Rain slammed against the window, in sheets.

“This is genius,” Vince said, setting the charm back against his chest, “Let’s watch _this_.”

 _What, like a film?_ Howard meant to ask, before Vince took his hand and led him cheerfully back to the sofa.  

“It’ll be just like those times, back at the zoo,” Vince proceeded.  He turned, to provide Howard with a momentary view of his most charming smile.  A second of seeing it, Vince knew, was enough to get Howard to do anything, usually without further instruction.

Like turning the couch and pushing it back against the bannister, so it faced the window.  Vince had to set Howard down against his preferred armrest, blinking and shaking himself free of the smile’s power.  Vince laughed to himself, satisfied, and found something he wanted to work on.

“Will you get that flannel off the bed?” Vince asked.  He was busy comparing coats from the hooks on the wall, then sorting through his sewing kit for a thread to match.  When he returned to the couch, Howard was waiting with the blanket, stretched over his arm.

The curtains were open, allowing them to watch the raindrops race down the glass, cheered on by alternate bursts of thunder and lightning.  Much better than any movie.

Vince leaned into Howard’s shoulder, allowing him to wrap them both up in the blanket.  He folded his legs up onto the couch, and set his coat over his knees to work on.  

“Almost exactly like that night at the zoo, now,” he said happily.

“Yeah?” breathed Howard, staring forward, “’Cept we were sitting on the floor, on two separate mattresses with two awful blankets.”

Vince was adjusting the hem on the coat.  Howard’s coat, clearly.

“Yeah,” Vince agreed, “but the feeling was the same.  The vibe.”

“The _vibe_?” Howard turned.  He noticed Vince’s sewing project, too, but decided it was better to ruin the coat than the conversation.

“Yeah.  I love rainstorms.  Just sitting like that in the hut… I always felt so comfortable and safe with you.  God,” he added, whining slightly, “I was _so_ in love with you then, it was embarrassing.”

Howard tried to decide how to convey ‘what are you now, then?’, ‘you can always feel safe with me,’ and ‘were you really?!’ all at once.  Vince would understand perfectly, as he divided the thoughts up.  The first was given to his eyes, as he turned to Vince and quirked his brow.  For the second, he tightened his reach around Vince’s shoulder, and almost kissed his head, stopping with just enough distance to preserve Vince’s hairstyle.  The last, he spoke.

“Yes, really,” Vince mumbled back, “It was so obvious, Howard, you _must’ve_ known.  I felt like _such_ an idiot.”

“ _I_ feel like an idiot... I didn’t know.”

“I thought there was something wrong with me,” Vince tried to make it sound like a joke, but spoke too quickly, “I was so nervous around you, always waffling on, even though I’d known you forever… I think I was waiting for you to do something.  And that took you long enough.”

“You should’ve said something,” Howard argued, with the calm superiority that had originally put them in this position.  Vince nodded at him, to point this out.  “Fair point.”

“It’s fine,” Vince brushed Howard’s hand, then returned to his work on the sleeves, “We figured it out, eventually.”

“I think we still are.”

The glitter settled against one wall of Vince’s necklace.  All the lightning, now, appeared in that side of the sky.  

“D’y’ know what?” Vince began, in the endlessly charming tone Howard felt at home with, “When we first started there, doing night watch, I used to put your jacket on first thing in the morning.  Before you woke up.”

Howard could not think of anything more delightfully engaging than a _new_ story, from the one person he thought he completely knew.  

“You did?”

“Sometimes.  But one morning, after a night like this with the rain… I remember, you couldn’t sleep because of the sound it made, so when it stopped in the morning you slept through half the shift.  I got up before you, and I stood there, wearing your jacket.  It wasn’t on purpose,” he quickly added, “I’d tried to find mine in the dark, ‘cos it was so cold in there, do you remember?”

Howard nodded.  Vince trimmed the thread and poked the needle into the empty cushion beside them, so he could focus fully on the story.

“I was freezing, and I’d usually just take half your blanket, but I felt bad about waking you up again.  I leaned over and grabbed a jacket, and it was yours.  That’s what started it, me being hopeless and lovesick and _embarrassing_.”

“What are you saying?” Howard led gently, “All that, from my uniform?”

“Well I did go through your pockets,” Vince added with a chuckle.

“You did what?” At any other time, Howard was convinced he would have remembered the complete list of things he kept in his Zooniverse uniform.  But now, under the pressure, and based on the weight of Vince’s smile, all he could come up with was ‘something embarrassing.’  And that wasn’t much help.

“There was nothing else to do.”

Howard moved his hand back to the armrest, in the surest display of disapproval he could think of.

“The inner one was _just_ ticket stubs,” Vince continued, undeterred, “films that I thought were too old and boring to be in cinemas, bands I’ve still never heard of, and one from that porpoise race.  And I thought ‘why would you need a ticket for _that_?’ but then I remembered I was supposed to be the one in it, and figured you planned on watching.”

Howard nodded, silenced by nostalgia.  Vince didn’t mind; he understood and enjoyed his role as the storyteller.

“And then in the front ones, loads of those tabs off coke cans,” he toyed with the pockets on the jacket he held, currently, and wondered if anything similar was inside.  But Howard was there, and he wouldn’t trouble him by looking.

“Yeah.  They always broke off when I opened them.  I didn’t want to leave them lying about.”

“Or you didn’t want people seeing you’d broke ‘em,” Vince hummed. “And all the sweets wrappers, written in Spanish?  I couldn’t figure out where you got them from; drove me mad.  What were they about?”

“Mexico.  You can’t get anything that spicy here.”

“ _Spicy_?” Vince was entertained, “You’re so _beige_ , Howard, you’re like a korma.  You don’t do spicy.”

The lightning, throughout their conversation, became more distant.  Howard shrugged and reached to shake Vince’s necklace, just enough to bring it back.  

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“As if.”

Howard’s hand slipped down from Vince’s shoulder, and settled over his forearm.  On his way to meet it, Vince brushed the necklace.  The thunder returned, rattling the windows.  Howard tightened the blanket around them.

“I might fall asleep,” Vince said.

Howard knew better than to ask if he was serious.  Vince could fall asleep anywhere.

“I was counting on that,” he said, instead.

“You’re so weird.”

As he leaned in, pressing his face gently against Howard’s neck, the glitter in the necklace shifted to the other side.  Howard thought he could hear the stairs creaking, but convinced himself it was anything else, dictated by storm.  When Vince wasn’t awake to distract him, he had a habit of worrying about everything.

He reached for Vince’s wrist, where the sleeve was crumpled up, and stroked back and forth with his thumb.  Again, he heard another small noise somewhere behind them.  But Vince was so comfortable, he couldn’t turn his head to check.

The noise gradually became an “ugh.”

Howard squeezed Vince’s wrist until he was noticeably awake, blinking and sighing at him.

“Alright, Naboo,” he said, back to the noise.

“You’re home early,” Howard said, still unconvinced this was Naboo they were talking to.  It could’ve been any number of unwelcome visitors.  

“Have you been going through my stuff again?”

It was Naboo.  Howard immediately shook his head.

“They rescheduled,” Naboo explained, stepping around to Vince’s side of the sofa.  He reached to take the needle out, first, making a point of not looking at the others, until something shiny caught his attention, “And _that_ must be why.  Unbelievable.  Howard, I _knew_ you were going through my stuff.”

He waited, glaring, until Vince took off the necklace, set it on the coffee table, and apologised falsely on Howard’s behalf.

“You could’ve at least read the instructions, you ballbag.  Could’ve done anything but rain.”

“Won’t happen again,” Howard said, rolling his eyes at Vince.

“Isn’t there anything else you can do to… whatever it is you two do… claim each other?”

Vince laughed, and simply wished Naboo a good night, smiling the whole time.  No one was immune to it.

“You _are_ ridiculous,” Vince said to Howard, when they were alone again.  

Gradually, the rain subsided.  The room was dark and quiet, but warm.

“I’m going back to sleep,” Vince said, in place of an apology, “Did you want to move to the bed?”

“No, this is fine for now.  Let me have m’ coat.”

Vince’s eyes were already decidedly shut when he reached to pass it over.  Howard took the necklace from the table, and slid it into his jacket pocket. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is definitely becoming a collection, now. Not really a thing with a plot, I'm sorry. It's gonna be fluff, with some more serious conversations on the way too. If you have suggestions or headcanons you'd like to see included, do let me know.


	4. Chapter 4

Howard set the baking sheet on the table between them, over a trivet.  On the first few batches of cakes - he always insisted he was testing recipes - he kept the sheet in the oven long after it was off and cold, to prevent Vince taking one too early.  Now, though, at the conclusion of Batch 29, he knew that Vince was immune to being burned.  Something to do with a lifelong dependency on Nicky Clarke and caster sugar.  

As soon as Howard stepped back from the tray and reached to shut the oven, Vince scooped up three of the roughly-shaped cakes, to trim and decorate as he pleased.

“I can’t believe you’ve never had a flirtini,” Vince picked up a conversation they started several days ago.  He kept all of their half-finished ones; Howard worked on the ones they hadn’t started yet.

He was, in fact, caught in one at the moment, concerning Vince’s recent use of purple ink on the wall planner.  He said nothing.

Vince started pressing glitter-dipped sprinkles into the top of his cakes.

“Haven’t you had a sip off’a mine?”

Howard blinked at him, then said ‘no.’

“You must’ve done.”

“I don’t like any of the ingredients on their own.  Why would I want to try them together?”

“You do things like that, every so often,” Vince watched him, “You remember the time with the frappuccino?”

Howard shook his head, and tested the temperature of the tray with two fingers.  Still too warm.

“The pink one?” Vince proceeded, at which Howard nodded, “It was strawberry, with probably ten types of syrup on top, and I know you had some of it when I went to get a new straw, because mine had a slit in the side.”

“What’s your point?  I _like_ strawberry.”

“Then why’d you insist on getting a black coffee - which you _don’t_ like - then finishing half my drink when I wasn’t looking?”

“It wasn’t half your drink.” Finally, he picked up one of the cakes, and broke it down the middle, “I have to order something plain.  That’s my look.”

“Doesn’t work that well though, does it?  Not between whipped cream and your mustache.”

Howard shrugged.  There was probably an argument to be made of this, but he was still stuck on the wall planner.  That, and the cake.  It wasn’t a plain recipe, by their recent definition, but he liked it.

“We’re going out tonight, and you’re having one.”

“I thought you wrote something about karaoke… is that what this whole thing has been about?”

Vince briefly glanced up from his work.  It was nearly covered in the shimmery sprinkles, now, and he thought it looked too nice to eat any time soon.  That’s what the other half of Howard’s was for; it was offered to him and he took it without thinking.

“Yeah, that’s every week though,” Vince spoke between his typically tiny bites, “I didn’t know if I gave you enough notice for tonight.”

“I can do tonight,” Howard nodded.  This surprised both of them, until he tried to explain that it was a ‘shared interest’ and Vince laughed at him.

“What, like the cakes?”

“Yeah.  Like anything we do together.”

“We do _everything_ together.”

“We don’t.”

“It’s pretty close though, isn’t it?  I mean, it’s up there…”

“Up where?” Howard leaned in, one brow raised.  Vince knew he had fallen into something.

“Don’t you be pulling me into a crimp.  We’ve gotta focus on picking a song for tonight.”

Vince set to work on his second cake, which would, as always, turn out looking completely different than the first one.  

“That won’t be too hard,” Howard took a seat at the chair across from Vince, “I know what you like, and you know what I like.”

“Yeah, and none of it overlaps,” Vince chided.

Howard peered at the planner, but couldn’t discern the event’s time.  Vince’s writing, when he was really excited about something, was only legible because he liked to switch pens to use a different colour every few letters.  But it was all purple, this time.

“Unless it’s something we’ve written, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Vince agreed, “But that’s not really karaoke, is it?  That’s more an ‘open mic night’ kind of thing.”

"We'd better get to work, then."

“On what?  We’re _not_ writing something.”

“We’ll have a look through the records.  Downstairs, come on.”

Vince and Howard both maintained private music collections, in addition to the pieces available for sale at the Nabootique.  They sifted through their own music, first, occasionally making a suggestion, which the other invariably met with an ‘as-if’ laugh.  

Then, each about halfway through their boxes, they spoke.  At once.

Howard said, “Better put the radio on, as well” while Vince sighed, “I oughta put the radio on too, huh?”

Vince could not even touch the dial, before they decided on their song.  Both of them drifted back, on the memory of it.

* * *

Vince rolled over, nearly off of the small mattress and onto the floor.  This didn’t seem familiar, yet.  He shook his head, trying to think of how many things he could do to make his hair look decent in the dark.  These were shuffled between ‘where the hell am I?’ and ‘how quickly can I get out of here?’

This was always his thought process, when he woke up in a strange bedroom.  He remembered to turn his head, and make a guess at who he’d gone home with.  Had he been out last night?  Wasn’t it Tuesday?  He swore he’d been at work…

_Oh._

It was Howard, on his own mattress.  Vince tried to relax, and attach himself to the familiar room.  It was only the beds that were different, he told himself.  They put them on the ground, with the intention of retrieving one of Vince’s scarves which had slithered back behind the top bunk, and was caught between the frame and the wall.  Then, they gave up on putting everything back, and were opportunely distracted by the start of their night shift.  By the time they got back to the hut, they agreed they were too tired to lift the beds up again.  Despite this, they stayed up for nearly two hours talking.

He stood and stepped cautiously between the mattresses, then over Howard’s, toward the wall mirror.

The clock radio, abandoned by the bed-frame, began blaring a song.  Vince panicked and struggled to silence it.

“It’s fine,” Howard said, mouth and eyes as shut as possible.  Vince retracted his hand, afraid he would’ve knocked the thing over anyway.

“Morning,” Vince said, habitually adding, “Alright?”

“Alright,” Howard mumbled.

Vince watched him, fingers folded over the blanket atop his chest, tapping away with the song.  It wasn’t jazz, but something gentle and acoustic, which Vince genuinely enjoyed every once in awhile.  He returned his attention to the mirror, and ran his fingers through his hair to the same beat.  Soon, Howard was doing his best approximation of humming along.  Vince joined in, guessing decently at the chord progression, as he had never heard the song before.

“That’s a good song for us,” Howard said definitively.  Vince could tell, just from hearing him, that he would rather still be asleep, but he glanced back and returned the smile.

* * *

“What’d you think?” Vince asked, eagerly reclaiming his glass.

Howard shrugged as he swallowed.  His face was more scrunched up than usual, when he answered.

“Told y’ I wouldn’t like it.”

“You just had to try it,” Vince said, “Officially.”

“Right.”

Vince had both elbows on the table, and leaned onto one hand in order to fix his headband.  Howard was wearing the coat Vince recently hemmed for him, on the basis of ‘improving his look,’ which it did drastically.  Vince took another sip of what he repeatedly christened ‘Camden’s best flirtini’ and asked if Howard could do with another whiskey, instead.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

So far, neither complained about the other singers or their music choices.  Between their alternating ventures to the bar, they noticed a small section of the room was left for dancing, with tables all folded up and shoved against the wall.  Vince tossed his head back to indicate it, after he returned to the table and they’d exchanged drinks.

“We ought to dance, too, since we’re here.”

“I will need another drink then, yeah,” muttered Howard.  And he went over for a bit of recon, under the pretense of ordering.  The dancing area was small enough for him to feel comfortable, and decently lit.  They both hated dark rooms; in them, people would appear out of nowhere solely to make Vince uncomfortable.  

He returned, without a new glass.  Vince smirked at him.

“Genius, innit?  Let’s go.”

They found their way to the less crowded side of the dance-floor, with Vince reaching repeatedly to hold Howard’s waist.  The song was slow, but he was convinced it was ending, and wanted to take full advantage of the last coda.

“One dance, and then we can go put our song in the queue, yeah?” he prompted, catching Howard at last.   

“I’m not in a rush,” Howard returned.  He touched one of Vince’s hands, first, to confirm it was welcome there, before settling his own over Vince’s shoulders.  

The next song they heard, however, was undoubtedly theirs.  They pulled away from each other, briefly, to exchange disbelieving expressions.

“If that’s Lance Dior--!” Vince began.  Howard pulled him closer, for the sake of de-escalation.

“It doesn’t sound anything like him,” Howard said.  “And if it is, you _know_ I’ll come at him like a- a stack of… bricks.”

“‘Like a stack of bricks?’”

Vince reset his hands, fingers curling up perfectly into the bones at Howard’s hips.

“It’s hard to think, when you’re staring at me like that.”

“Like _what_?”

Howard sunk his shoulders and tried to duplicate the pouty face Vince was giving him.  Vince just laughed.

“That’s amazing.”

“They aren’t bad, though, are they?” Howard asked, looking momentarily toward the singers. Howard took over the job of leading, only for a moment, to turn them so Vince could see the stage.

“We would’ve done better-”

“-Right-”

“-But they are pretty good, yeah.”

Vince moved one hand around to Howard’s back.  He slid it gently beneath the coat, but kept it outside of Howard’s shirt.  Regardless, it took Howard longer than usual to compose an answer.  It wasn’t that he _disliked_ Vince touching him there, but it did surprise him, and he generally disliked surprises.  A touch on the back had become something slightly more special, and oddly more tender, than the rest of their exchanges.  Shoulders, hands, even neck.  He hardly noticed these, most days. 

“There’s always next week,” Howard said quietly, “Or other places.”

Vince gazed up at him, face alight.

“D’ya mean that?”

“Compromise,” said Howard, as Vince pulled himself closer.

“It’ll take a lot to get me into a jazz club,” Vince said, to his overly hopeful expression.  

“I’ve got a lot to give.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Despite the loss of their song, they agreed it was a nice night out.  They left just before the club shut its doors, and enjoyed walking home hand-in-hand beneath a misty fog, as it settled over the city and scrubbed away the moonlight.  

When at last they reached their room, Vince opened the window but shut the curtains.  He found a silky dressing gown at the back of his wardrobe, and decided that would be plenty to wear to bed.  It was three in the morning, anyway.  He was looking forward to spending the whole of the day in their bedroom, steamy and warm with fog.  

As soon as he shut his eyes, he could hear Howard leaning over.  

To kiss him on the neck.

“What you doing?” Vince lulled, sleepily.

“I’m givin’ you a kiss goodnight.”

“What, on m’ neck?” Vince rubbed over the spot Howard had chosen, “A kiss on the neck doesn’t say, ‘oh, goodnight, love.  Sweet dreams.’  It’s more of ‘c’mere and rip my clothes off, I’m pissed.’” Vince turned to look at him, sitting there and smiling intently, “Are you?”

He knew, after a few trips around in an otherwise unused wheelbarrow, that Howard was most affectionate after a few drinks.

“No,” Howard said, decidedly, “Could do with my shirt off, though.”

“That’s your angle, is it?” Vince’s voice was both pleased and playful, “bickering and tension?”

“Kind of.”

“That, and waiting for me to show you how to do everything.” Vince leaned over, and lazily set to work on the buttons, “Hopeless.”

“Not everything,” they corrected his statement, simultaneously.  Vince gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and added ‘of course not.’

He set one hand over Howard’s skin, having finished with the lowest button.  Howard stared down at his hand, somewhat impatiently, then asked Vince if he was too tired, or if they could kiss for a while before bed.  Howard refused to use - or hear - the phrase ‘making out’ ever again, as he said it sounded criminal.  Vince was too tired to critique Howard’s stumbling use of romantic language, but not for kissing.   

“Sure we can, for a bit,” Vince smiled, and slowly reopened his eyes, “You don’t have to look all nervous like that… it’s just us.  Relax.”

* * *

It was difficult for Howard to relax, on late nights like this.  Vince usually left a note before staying out past their sliding definition of a ‘reasonable’ curfew, but he hadn’t this time.  Howard was folded up in bed beneath their blanket, trying to read but failing to make it past the first sentence on the page.  

As he started on the second one, he could hear what was certainly Vince’s best pair of shoes, gliding along the doorway and then clacking up the stairs.  He tried to open the bedroom door quietly, but froze when he noticed Howard was still awake, and all the lights were still on.  He swore to himself and then apologised for being late.

“You need to let me know,” Howard tried to sound gentle rather than angry, but his throat was dry and uncooperative, “You could’ve been lying dead in a gutter somewhere, for all I knew.”

“I said I was sorry,” Vince repeated, “I didn’t mean to stay so long, but they had a _really_ nice shower.  Marble walls and everything.”

“ _They_?  Where were you?”

Vince sat down on his side of the bed, crossing his legs one way, then the other, to unzip both boots.  

“Club,” he explained. “And he was so gross and predictable.  I probably would’ve left if not for the shower, to be honest.”

“ _What_?”

“I’m fine,” Vince corrected, turning in his seat, “Just predictable as in, y’know, comes up and starts chatting, asks if I’ve got a girlfriend, looks like he’s into me and’d be gutted if I said ‘yes.’  I wanna say ‘yes’ to some of ‘em, so they’ll leave me alone.”

“But he didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” Vince promised, “Tells me _he’s_ got a girlfriend.  I think about saying something like, ‘I’m someone’s girlfriend already, sorry,’ but instead I say, ‘oh, I’m bi too, that’s cool.’  Which they _always think_ means I’m there looking for a threesome.”

Howard shifted uncomfortably, and thought about retrieving the book and reading aloud, so Vince would stop.  But he did nothing.  Usually, Vince was so purposefully vague that Howard knew _exactly_ what he was saying.  Tonight, though, he shifted between muddled imagery and uncomfortable detail.  

“I guess that makes me predictable too,” Vince rolled his eyes, “Because I usually am.  I say ‘sure’ and I go with them to their place.   _Well_ nice.”

“ _Why_ are you telling me this?”

“You looked worried.”

“Not about the details.”

“Sorry.”  Vince reached for his hand, but Howard shook his head.

“Don’t.”

“I had a shower.”

“I heard.”

“By myself, I meant.”

Howard had never previously considered multiple people having showers together, and hated to start now.  He shook his head again, more aggressively, as if this would help.

“I don’t understand why you do that.”

Vince glanced at the ceiling.  He had a perfectly eloquent response, somewhere in the back rooms of his brain, but had trouble phrasing it in a way that wouldn’t make Howard feel more confused, frustrated, jealous, or falsely inadequate.

“I always look for a couple,” Vince replied, “It feels safer to me.  There’s no commitment, and they’re usually just bored students, about my age anyway.  I’m not afraid of being taken somewhere else… nothing bad happens.”

Howard paused, soaking up all the details he _again_ didn’t ask for.

“I meant, why do you do that _at all_?”

“Oh, right,” grinned Vince, realising it was too late in the conversation for him to feel properly relieved, “I don’t know.  A lot of people do.  But a lot of people don’t, like you, and that’s fine too.”

Howard shrugged; he would rather not think about it, either.  They spoke simultaneously:

“Look, Howard, I won’t talk about it anymore if you don’t like it, but you can’t stop me from--”

“I only wish you didn’t tell me about it… I won’t stop you, if it makes you happy.”

Vince desperately wanted to touch him, now.  They _always_ touched when they found themselves in agreement.  A tap on the hand, a pat over the shoulder, a brush along the waist...

“I’ll tell you before I go out next time,” Vince muttered, still gazing at Howard’s hand, clenched in a fist between their pillows.

“That’s fine.  I’m sorry.”

Vince’s fingers crept forward, but Howard drew his hand away.

“No, still don’t touch me.  I need time to forget about all that.”

“Did you want to go to sleep?  I can go on the sofa.”

Howard had the same problem, pulling the right words down from his mind.

“No, don’t.  I want to be _with_ you.  And I’ll need to give you a hug, first thing in the morning.”

Vince laughed, under his breath, and said _this_ was what he loved, not whatever he managed to scrape from the cold hands of confused strangers.  That wasn’t affection, it was compulsion.  Howard was completely sufficient, in a different and difficult-to-describe way.  

“I’d better, er, get back to reading,” Howard decided.  They both knew it was already ‘morning’, by definition, but the room remained dark.  They knew, also, that there was no point in trying to sleep just yet.  This was time for catching up on the day they’d spent apart.  This was an important piece of the intimacy Howard had worked so hard to create, specifically and solely for Vince.  They didn’t _need_ to be touching each other, or even looking at each other, to feel _together_.

Vince, then, thought it was a good time to start that portrait.  He returned to the bed, and sat with a canvas on his lap and a pencil between his teeth while he considered his subject.  

“Shove back a bit,” he said, “so you have to lean forward to read… There, that’s brilliant.”

* * *

As usual, Howard leaned back against the headboard.  Vince settled over him, one leg folded up on either side of Howard’s waist.  Howard mumbled something about Vince being a weightless celestial being, and Vince shushed him with swollen lips.

“I don’t need any of your cream poetry for this, thanks.”

“Right, sorry.”

“Sort of puts me off, ‘stead of getting me off.”

“ _Shut up_.”

Vince smirked and shut his eyes, and continued moving in a way that was too beautiful for Howard to properly describe.  Usually, Howard liked the _idea_ of kissing better than the actual exchange, but tonight was slow and gentle and quiet, and he couldn’t think of anything nicer.  Their hands started in each other’s hair, ruffling it up and curling the ends between distracted fingers.  Then, Vince’s moved to Howard’s shoulders, while Howard’s found their way to Vince’s hips.  There was some movement there, which Howard didn’t particularly like.  He pressed Vince flat down against him, and this stopped.  

“Sorry,” Vince was sincere.  

“’S fine.  Good to know I’ve still got it.”

“Got what?  Are you ill?  I don’t w--”

“Forget it.”

Vince arched his back, instead, so he could kiss Howard’s neck.  He adored the feeling of Howard’s skin, so smooth and so rare for him to touch.  He shrugged his shoulders, trying to free himself of the dressing gown so he could feel _more_.  Howard understood, and slid it down as far as he could reach.  It got caught at the tie, knotted around his waist, but was left alone.  Howard tried to portray ‘you’re welcome’, which ended up as his lips smearing over Vince’s collar bone.

“Vince?” he breathed against the softest point of Vince’s shoulder, just beneath the joint.  He wanted to keep his eyes shut, comfortable in the humid weight of the moment.  But he could feel Vince stopping to study him, and he was no help if his face was blank.

“Yeah?” Vince sat back against Howard’s legs, “You okay?”

For a moment, Vince wanted to apologise for being too heavy to sit over him like that, but he knew Howard could lift him, and didn’t mind, either.  With anyone else, this would’ve slipped out, and he would’ve become immediately and incurably miserable.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Howard confirmed, “Thanks.”

“Are you tired?”

If Vince was weightless, his gaze was infinitely heavy.  Howard was caught in it, afraid - deep down - that he was about to disappoint both of them.

“Yeah,” he managed after a moment, “This is great and all, but I think I’d rather be asleep right now.  Is that… Is that really inconsiderate?  Like I’ve left you hanging or something?”

“It’s not, if it’s you,” Vince’s fingers twirled absentmindedly over Howard’s stomach, “I’ll just go have a shower or something.”

Howard sat up and kissed him, flatly and chastely, on the lips.   _Thanks_ , this said, _for putting up with me_.  

“And don’t you start thinking that means you aren’t enough for me,” Vince caught the worry in Howard’s eyes before it could fully develop elsewhere.  “We’re just built differently, you and me.  Everyone is.”

Vince crawled back to his side of the bed, slipping the dressing gown the rest of the way off, then retreating to the shower as promised.

“Like, for me,” Vince switched on the water, “just thinking about us is plenty.”

Howard couldn’t tell whether or not he was serious, until he noticed the breaks in the water hitting the glass had been replaced with little gasps of his name.  

 _Is there anything else I can do?_ Howard thought, hating the guilt but unable to reverse it.  He tried, as Vince returned to the bed, one towel around his waist and another over his hair.

“You still like a cuddle, don’t you?”

Vince nodded.

“Only with you,” he clarified.  “because I care about you.  And ‘cos I’m safe here.”

“‘Course you are,” Howard agreed, scooting closer to the centre of the mattress, “C’mere.”

Vince snuggled into his side of the bed, apologising about the wet towel he’d shoved in Howard’s face, but not removing it.  Howard didn’t recognise this as a misfortune, as he had become so accustomed to his bad luck.  And, after he and Vince finally figured out what to call themselves, he found he was willing to bin a lot more of the world’s rubbish.  Whatever it took to become the man Vince deserved, and the type he’d been labelling himself as for years.  He shook his head at this.

“Am I…” Howard began, while Vince reached to pat his shoulder, “Don’t I have to try it, to see whether or not I like it?”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

“But wouldn’t you--?”

“You wouldn’t like it, Howard.  I know you well enough to say that.  Do you ever hear yourself speak?”

Howard mentioned that yes, he did, and that was the thing troubling him at the moment.

“So you think it means you’re not a ‘man’?”

Howard didn’t know what he thought, much less how to articulate it.

“I _don’t care_ ,” Vince continued, “That is the foundation of our relationship - right - not caring?”

“Hey, now,” Howard was willing to walk into any trap, as long as Vince was holding the net, “I care very deeply about you, Vince.  Very deeply, indeed.”

Vince gave him a grin, which fell precisely on ‘self-satisfied dandy’ within his acting-identification range.  It was a complicated system.

“I know you do.  That’s not something you have to try and prove to me, okay?”

Howard nodded.

“Just _one_ kiss goodnight, this time.”

Something told him Vince’s forehead was a better choice. 


	6. Chapter 6

Vince was staring into the brushstrokes of a lion’s mane, trying to recapture the way he felt, years ago, when he created it.  He was not looking forward to painting over it.  That was Howard’s suggestion.

“It looks like a child’s room,” Howard said, when they both peered at it over teacups the previous night.

“That’s what I was going for,” Vince was indignant, “It _was_ a child’s room.  Not everyone’s born in their fifties, like you.”

“We’re the same age,” was Howard’s automatic response.  Vince didn’t mind him saying it now, if it meant they could both look as confident as Howard did, nearing sixty.  He was thankful to have gotten his compulsory age crisis out of the way early.  Or, at least, a good deal earlier than Vince had done.

He patted the painted wall, while staring at the buckets and brushes on the floor in front of him.  It wasn’t a child coming to visit between terms, after all.  The circle of animals - many of them wearing hats or boots or both - had been outgrown.

He could hear Howard in the kitchen, sliding things around on the table.  Stacks of his books, rolled up tour posters, mismatched teacups.  Each made a distinctive sound, which Vince couldn’t help but focus on.  Then he heard the letter-opener, being used correctly for perhaps the first time in its life.

“Hey, Picasso,” Howard called, shortly after.

Vince met him on the other side of the table, gave a barely audible ‘hmm?’ and stared at the envelope.

“Where’ve you put my glasses?”

“That’s all you wanted?” Vince set his hands on his hips, “Nothing about, ‘look, we’ve got a letter’?”

“Well I can’t read it without them, can I?”

He couldn’t read it with them, either.  Vince’s habit of writing a single page in at least thirty colours was, apparently, hereditary.

“I wish I was colourblind,” he unfolded the page, and lost count of all the different pens that were used to compose it.  Vince glanced at it, but was admittedly useless at reading upside-down.

“Aren’t you?  I thought you were.  That would’ve explained _so_ much...”

“Shut up,” Howard passed the paper over, “I’ll get a headache.”

With a satisfied nod, Vince accepted it.

“You’ve gotta get contacts, like me,” he said, always hoping Howard was capable of coming up with exciting excuses like he was.  Nothing.  

Howard rubbed his eyes while Vince set in on the letter.

“Should be down for a week at half-term,” his voice was light, giving a partial impersonation of his script’s writer, “And… and got…”

“Got what?” Howard glanced up, already completely worried.

“Got accepted for placement at the wildlife sanctuary.  Starts in February.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah,” Vince agreed.  He set the page down, pointing at the important lines and guiding Howard through them.  Howard nodded at him, once, pointedly.  This meant Vince had become distracted and started playing with his wedding ring again.  Howard kept count.

“I like having something permanent,” Vince always said back, “Any look I want, and this’ll always be there.”

“I only count cos I think it’s sweet,” Howard insisted.  In a mocking tone, Vince said this was ‘a bit creepy’, so he quickly changed the topic.

“I’m leaving the bedroom how it is.”

* * *

“Howard?”

Vince sat across from him, legs turned inward - between Howard’s - leaning in and patting his cheeks.

“Howard?  Howard, wake up.”

Vince brushed Howard’s hair aside, and set the back of his hand over Howard’s forehead.

“Hmm?”

“Christ,” Vince sighed, “Thought you had too much of it, that time.”

“What?”

Vince held up the flask, faded from trips to and from Xooberon.

“Naboo spikes it, y’know.”

“ _What_?”

“So you’ll _stop_ trying to drink it,” Naboo whined from the doorway.

“I wasn’t drinking it- I was... what do you mean you spike it?!”

Vince leaned closer, so only Howard could hear him.

“‘Stead of it making you younger, it makes you think you’re older.  I splashed some in my tea before the gig last week… looked in the mirror ‘n’ all my hair was gone.  Nearly had a heart attack.”

Howard wasn’t surprised to find the concept of ageing more attractive to himself than it was to Vince.  It was deep and sentimental, with plenty of space for introspection and time for self-improvement.  He grasped at the dregs of the dream, trying to make them into something solid.  A checklist.

First:

“We need to get our own place,” he mumbled back.  Vince’s eyes widened more than he thought was possible.

Howard stood, dragging Vince up with him.  

“What, right now?” Vince couldn’t remember the last time he’d walked two steps _behind_ Howard, but he followed him all the way to the front door.

“Yeah,” Howard said, “Right now.”

“Have you lost your mind?  Gimme time to call in some favours.”

* * *

“You _have_ lost it,” Vince giggled.  

They sat between several open boxes, organising their new room.  They had to keep passing each other things - scarves, mugs, guitar picks - because they started work on opposite sides of the bed and couldn’t be bothered to trade now.  Not with the piles building up between them.  Vince could barely see through his, of neatly folded and individually bagged clothes.

“This was all based on some youth-juice hallucination?” he prodded.

“And?  What’s your point?”

“You were like a man possessed.  I just wanna know where else this dream is gonna drag us, before we get there.”

Howard tossed him what was easily the most useless item of clothing ever created.  Vince claimed it was a poncho - or a shawl or something, he didn’t remember - but it looked more like a collection of empty loops of string.  An attempt at crocheting, if Howard had done it, blindfolded and with spoons for hooks.

“Thought you liked surprises.”

Vince shrugged and said it was gifts he liked.  These were usually surprises, and he rarely considered the discrepancy.  Made sense to Howard, anyway.

“Come on,” Vince nudged, “What else’ll you be getting us into?”

“It was a short dream.”

“You were on that chair for three hours!  I was gonna call an ambulance.”

“The flat was just like this,” he said happily, “two bedrooms across from the kitchen.”

Vince nodded and waited for him to continue.  He spoke the first part comfortably, inhaled, then crammed the rest into as few syllables as possible.

“We were happy together.  And, er… we were married and had a child, but they were away at uni, and they sent a letter to say…”

“We _what_?”

Howard repeated, ‘were happy together’ even though he knew this was not the part Vince needed to hear again.

“We’ve got a _kid_?”

“Yeah… takes a lot after you, apparently.”

“How’s _that_ work?”

“Look, it was a dream.  It doesn’t have to ‘work.’”

Vince glanced up from his box, where he’d just found a stack of pencil cases.

“I’ve never thought about having children,” Vince said, more seriously than Howard expected.

“I haven’t either.  You’re very good with them, though, aren’t you?”

“So are you, yeah.”

They didn’t need to go into further detail; they were already blissfully recalling several occasions at the Zooniverse, when school tours had thankfully fallen beyond Bob Fossil’s capabilities.  Vince led the children to the cages, giggling with them at jokes he interpreted from the animals.  Intermittently, Howard would offer useful anecdotes in a soft and patient voice, more than willing to repeat or elaborate on facts as requested.  The teachers would watch, invariably struck with the realisation that, if they had been divided into two people, two roles, it would be the zookeepers in front of them.

“I dunno,” Vince said, “It’d either make me feel _well_ old, or like I could be a kid all over again.”

“I didn’t say we had to have children, Vince.”

“Right, sorry.”

“No it’s… fine.  I hadn’t thought about it before, either.  Nice to bring it up.”

Vince scooted along the floor, between boxes and over the useless poncho, until he could reach Howard’s forearm.  He held it.  Agreement.

“I like how you weren’t bothered about the marriage part of it,” Howard was pleased with this observation, and set it out for their next round of bickering, “Went right past that.”

“We’re married already.”

“No, actually married.”

Vince let him go, faking shock.

“You don’t remember that time in the treehouse - we were six or seven - the girl who sat behind me in class said she knew all the words for the ceremony.”

“I completely fo--”

“How dare you,” Vince clicked his tongue, “It was beautiful.”

Howard would’ve played with the ring now, if he had kept it.  Vince knotted them up, out of reeds.  If his memory served him, Vince had stuffed the biggest flower he could find into the centre of his, in place of a gemstone, and Howard declined uprooting one to match.

“So, what you’re telling me is we don’t need to have a wedding.”

“I didn’t think you’d want one,” Vince said, “Kinda figured your hate for parties was a bit stronger than that youth-juice was.”

Howard shrugged, and Vince returned it.

“Was this a ‘top five’ dream?” Vince offered, “Because if it was, I think we should do it.”

“I guess so.  But I don’t want a big party.  And we don’t need to.”

“No,” Vince agreed, “we don’t need to.  Not any time soon, anyway.”

With a sigh, Howard returned his focus to the box in front of him.  

“That it, then?”

He could feel Vince staring at him.

“Is what it?”

“Everything’s fine?  You’re happy with all of that?”

“Yeah,” said Vince, eyes flickering with what Howard assumed was mischief.

“If you _ever_ try to propose to me,” Howard said, digging through the box for inspiration, “I’ll come at you like--”

“ _Me_ , propose to _you_?  Your brain’s in backwards.”

“What?  You think I’ll be proposing to you?”

“Yeah,” Vince grinned, “I _know_ you will be.  Trying to be all proper and making a right fool’a yourself.”

Howard shook his head.  Somehow, he didn’t think either of them particularly wanted - nor expected - a proposal from the other.  Their permanence was just sort of understood.  No one questioned it, so they didn’t either.  And he couldn’t remember proposing when they’d been ‘married’ at school, so there wasn’t a gesture he could copy.

Vince could tell Howard was thinking about it.  He shoved aside his pile of clothes and scooted into its place.  Howard looked at him for a combined second, between glances at the door, the bed, and anything else bright enough to draw his focus.

“That one girl, Anna - I think, she got a day out of school to go to a wedding, and she got back and wouldn’t stop goin’ on about it.  Everyone wanted to do one.  I made those rings for the whole class - d’you remember? - out of flowers.”

“Yeah,” Howard said, relieved, “I remember.”

“Dunno why it was you and me.”

“...Could’ve been anyone.”

“I didn’t mean it like _that_.”

“I know.  Just--”

“I dunno why it was _ever_ you and me, I meant to say.  But it always has been.  And we can leave it how it is."


	7. Chapter 7

Vince adopted Howard’s habit of packing early for holidays.  He made only minimal effort to help plan - Howard liked writing the itinerary months in advance - but was delighted to sort through his closet and match looks to weather and environment.  This year, he was promised a week at the seaside.

When Howard found him one evening, still several days from their scheduled departure, he stopped in the doorway to watch.  Vince was draping sundresses over the pillows on his side of the bed.  Howard’s side was already covered with neatly folded t-shirts and trousers, some his own and some Vince’s.

Howard was still figuring out how to discuss his plans for their trip; he specifically chose the date they met.  It was so many years ago, he assumed Vince had forgotten, and he was wary of calling it an anniversary.  Anniversary of _what_?

“How’s it going?” he asked, taking one step into the bedroom.  

Vince let the pale yellow fabric of one dress slip from his arm, then shoved it beneath the others; he hadn’t intended for Howard to see this one, yet.

“Fine, yeah,” Vince said, “What about you?”

Howard looked at the bed and considered scooting some things aside so he could sit on it, but that would surely mess up Vince’s system.  He knew that wouldn’t make for an easy apology, so he remained standing near the wall.

“Fine,” he echoed, “but I think I need your help with something.”

Vince rolled his eyes and said he hadn’t reached a good stopping point, but Howard interrupted him.

“You can stay and do this,” he said, “I just had some questions.  I’m - er - I’m trying to do a poem, and I needed…”

He held up one finger, effectively pausing Vince, who stared helplessly after him as he ducked out of the room and then returned with an open notebook.

Howard tapped his pen twice against the page.

“I’m working on sonnets,” he began, “I need a list of ‘acts of intimacy’ and then I can go from there.”

Vince decided not to ask, for the sixth time, what a sonnet was, and how it was any different from Howard’s early morning monologues.  Which were always anonymous but clearly intended for Vince to hear while he was half asleep.  Raven hair, eyes like globes, slender build; he’d heard it all.

“ _Acts of intimacy_?” said Vince, “like me with you, or for other people?”

Howard tried to clear his throat and answer casually.

“Doesn’t matter, just,” he was scribbling over something on his notepad, “the closest you can get to someone, what’s that mean to you?”

Vince’s eyes followed the paisley pattern around the collar of one of the folded shirts while he thought.  He was caught on the word ‘you.’

“Food, sweets,” he said quietly. “Knowing what the other person likes, and making it for them or getting it for them.  Like when we go on long car trips and--”

“Doesn’t have to be about us,” Howard corrected, because this was on his Anniversary List already.  Specifically, he was planning a cake for it.

“--And one of us will nick out and get travel sweets and snacks for both of us before we go.”

“Right,” said Howard, “What else?”

“The closest _I_ get to someone--”

“It doesn’t have to be you--”

“--is letting them do my hair.  Or touch it at all, really.”

Vince gave a wistful smile, and set his face in his hands.  Most nights, Howard was welcome to play with his hair, if it was anything but newly straightened.  Vince found falling asleep much easier when Howard was twirling strands of it between two fingers.

“What else?” Howard prompted.  He was sharing the thought, and had to shake his head to clear it.  Vince glanced up.

“Well, when me ‘n’ you kiss and y--” _and you’re out of breath and say my name all soft like it’s the only word you know, and sometimes I ask you to say it again and..._ Vince could only think about it; Howard was staring down at him and looking painfully kissable.  Vince reminded himself to focus. 

Howard stepped closer to the bed and considered pocketing the notebook.  This discussion wasn’t improving his list at all.

“ _Not about us_ ,” he said, “Come on, _project_.” He waited for Vince to close his eyes before asking, “What’ve you got?”

Vince’s fingers were twisting over the pale yellow chiffon, poorly hidden beneath his other dress selections.  He slid his hand back over the pillow, and settled it on his thigh while he thought.  Howard moved to this side of the bed, and sat down between piles of clothes, as close to Vince as he could easily manage.

“There’s a couple, but they don’t get to see each other much.  Don’t live together or anythin’.”

“Okay,” Howard said.  He set his notebook in his lap and stretched his hand over Vince’s shoulder instead, “What’s next?”

“It’s a girl and a guy at different universities,” Vince sounded defeated, “’S not like us at all.”

“Good.”

“She’s got _loads_ of his clothes, though, and wears ‘em around when she can’t see him.  Parkas and rugby jerseys and all that.  The parka’s a couple years old, from Topman, green and grey and she _hates_ the look of it but wears it anyway.”

“Fine,” said Howard, “so sharing clothes?”

He could see clothing as a central part of Vince’s value system, which translated easily to romantic gestures.  While it wasn’t on his list yet, he thought seriously about adding it.  He liked the sentiment, even if there was no hope of him ever going to bed in one of Vince’s t-shirts, like couples in films did.

“Yeah,” Vince said, “You’ve got to really trust someone, if you’re going to wear what they’ve got, or something they give you.”

“Right…”

Howard condensed the wording of this, and put it at the bottom of his list.

“Like,” Vince’s fingers returned fondly to the yellow dress, “I wanted to have a nice look ready for our anniversary trip, surprise you with it, but wasn’t sure you’d like it.”

“You’ve _got_ to stop going through my notebooks, Vince, that’s infringement of--”

“’S on the calendar.  I put it there.”

Howard didn’t know what to do, other than shrug and blink helplessly at the paper in front of him.  

“But I like your one better.  Let’s do that.”

“Do what?”

“We’ll switch clothes even though we’ll both hate it.”

“I don’t think you’ve got that right, Vince,” Howard sighed, “it’s not about the clothes.  It’s about feeling like you’re near the other person, when you aren’t.  Smells of their cologne, it’s their favourite colour, or something like that.”

“ _Well_ mushy,” Vince decided.

Again, Howard shrugged.  The title didn’t offend him anymore, once Vince pointed it out on one of their first official dates.

 _Outings_ , Howard corrected his thoughts.

Vince tugged the yellow dress out of hiding, and spread it out over his pillow, showcasing the important features of it to Howard, who wasn’t listening.

“...but I picked it cos it’s that same awful colour you used to wear to work, remember?  Like it got sick between making up its mind on whether to be yellow or brown.”

“Khaki,” Howard said helpfully.

“ _Ugh_ ,” said Vince. “But I thought I’d get a sheer version, so I could pull it off, and you’d like the look of it even if I _know_ it makes me look pale and way too young to be out with you.”

Howard had never put so much thought into a colour, which Vince knew and capitalised on.

“But we’ll do your one instead, and I won’t have to wear this in public,” he was relieved, “you’ve still got that shirt, haven’t you?”

Unsuccessfully, Howard tried to set his face in a way that would suggest he _didn’t_ know the shirt’s precise location at all times.

“I dunno,” he said, knowing his face was failing, “Probably got rid of it.  Wouldn’t exactly fit me anymore, now would it?”

“It didn’t fit you right back then,” Vince smiled and stood and went immediately to dig it out of Howard’s dresser.

He found it in the lowest drawer, settled very precisely between paired socks and knotted neckties.  Howard had tried too hard to make it look like something he’d forgotten about, and was only redeemed by the fact it contained five years’ worth of wrinkles.  

Vince shook it several times before undoing the buttons and loosening some of the creases.  He flipped up the collar - as much customisation as he would allow himself to indulge in - and pulled the shirt on.

Howard watched as Vince tugged at various hems and tried fastening different combinations of buttons.  He returned to his favourite pose in front of the wall mirror between each alteration, grinning timidly at his reflection.  The only appropriate expression for something of this shade.

“How’s that working for you?” Howard asked, amused.

“Reckon I could sleep in it so no one’s gotta see me,” Vince replied. “But what about you?”

“No, you don’t have anything that would fit me.  This is fine, honestly.”

“Come on, Howard,” Vince countered, “you love this sort’a stuff.”

Vince returned to his seat on the bed, and tucked himself between Howard’s chest and his arm, which folded in to meet Vince.

“I’ll make you one,” Vince decided, “I’ll do like a massive dress - maybe one of those big, fluffy jumpers - and wear it around for a week, and get hairspray and cologne and lotions and glitter all over it.  Then you can have it.”

They both glanced at the list, then each other, and Vince said “happy anniversary.”


	8. Chapter 8

Vince had started the holiday nights optimistically, wearing Howard’s keeper uniform to bed and modifying Howard’s new pyjama shirt until he was comfortable with it. 

They agreed, though, that the final night was too hot.  They had spent the entire day at the seaside, absorbing heat from the sand then trying to shed it between swims and ice creams. 

Vince giggled as he tore down the duvet and joined Howard in bed, still in the same clothes he wore to the beach: a thin black vest and his swimming trunks, the ones with the Rolling Stones logo he had to special order from a concert catalogue.  Howard was thankful Vince had packed them and actually  _ used  _ them; they had spent the years after their purchase in a separate glass compartment of Vince’s wardrobe.  Howard was happy to point out they had more in common than Vince thought.

“Y’alright?” Vince began softly.  

“Yeah,” Howard nodded, “just thinking.”

“‘Bout what?”

“Oh, everything,” Howard switched his tone for one of kind condescension. “How we’ve got to drive home tomorrow and go back to work.  I was starting to like it here.”

“It took you the whole week to like it here?”

“No, you know what I mean.”

“Cos it’s just been us ‘n’ everything,” Vince smiled and turned on his side.  Usually, Howard preferred laying on his back when they were talking, but he heard Vince shifting and turned to watch him. 

“Right.”

“I thought it was nice, and I don’t even  _ like  _ the beach.”

“You’re joking.  Why’d y--?”

“What?”

“Why’d you let me pick it if you don’t like it?”

“I had fun in the end; I always do.  It’s hard to have fun anywhere  _ you’re _ uncomfortable.”

He bent one of his legs out, hooked it around one of Howard’s, and pulled them both closer to the centre of the mattress.

“Well you could’ve at least… I mean, I really appreciate that, but I was trying to pick someplace neutral but far enough from home.”

“We’re - what? - half an hour out of Le-”

“Our home.”

Vince smiled. 

“But you were okay here, yeah?  And on the beach?”

“Yeah.  I mean, I always feel a bit… I dunno, not quite good enough when I’m with you anywhere people can see us.”

“What about now?” Vince tried very hard to furrow his brow and look serious. 

“Now’s alright.  I like when it’s just you and me.”

Vince set one hand over Howard’s chest, gently rubbing it over the fabric of his shirt. 

“I like all of you,” Vince said, “all the time.”

Howard wondered if words were capable of cutting off his blood circulation, or something.  He gripped Vince’s hand and tried to think of what to say.

“Honest,” Vince continued, because he could tell Howard was failing. “Except the moustache; it’s ridiculous.”

Howard slid his head back to the opposite edge of the pillow, flatly muttering ‘how dare you’ as he did so.

“But right  _ here _ ,” Vince cupped Howard’s cheek in his hand, and kissed the open space above the stubble and beside the moustache, “that’s alright.  I like that.”

The muscles there tensed, beyond Howard’s control, and Vince giggled against them. 

Newly inspired, Vince dipped below the covers, saying it was just like they were back out swimming again.  He was careful to tap the area he wanted to touch, first, so Howard could give him a yes or a no. 

“Really?” Howard said, but his voice was soft and inviting.  Still, Vince rolled the vest up slowly to give Howard time to change his mind. 

“It’s nice,” Vince mumbled this against Howard’s belly, so both were forced to believe it.  Vince kissed there, too, pulling his lips together slowly. 

“I, err, like all of you as well,” Howard said, after he felt the quiet was too long for comfort, but too short for even Vince to have fallen asleep.  

“Yeah?  You can touch wherever you like, since it’s for our anniversary ‘n’ all.”

Howard turned his gaze down to meet Vince’s beneath the blanket. 

“Ev--?”

“Even my hair, sure.  ‘S all wet and salty anyway.”

This was not exactly what Howard had in mind, but he nodded, guided Vince’s head back to its pillow, and settled his fingers between strands of Vince’s hair.  

“What about those stupid shorts you didn’t want anyone touching?”

Vince widened his eyes.

“I could… take them off?”

Howard’s nod would be undetectable to anyone but Vince, short and unsure of itself.

Vince pressed a quick kiss to the scar near Howard’s shoulder, shook off his clothes, then - with quiet encouragement - Howard’s.  Howard did not want to look him in the eye at this point, constantly blushing and unable to speak.  

“It’s alright,” Vince said. “If you’re holdin’ me I’ll fall asleep well quick.  And that way I’ll only see that stupid face you’re making in my dreams.”

Howard stopped his hands over Vince’s hip bones, muttering about how sharp they were as Vince snuggled back against him.  Howard folded himself up, so he could nestle his face over Vince’s shoulder. 

“We’ve never gone to bed like this before, have we, Howard?”

“Hm-mmm.”

“But we used to cram together in your bed or your sleeping bag sometimes when we were small.”

“That’s right.” Howard’s fingers traced idly over Vince’s stomach, “What are y--?”

“Tryin’ to work out how long we’ve been together, is all.”

“Hmm,” sighed Howard, “not too long, I hope.”

“No,” Vince said, surprised, “never!  Always just the right amount.”

* * *

It was always Howard who suggested making the scrapbooks, giving them a theme and practical colour-scheme and title before Vince was even awake for the day, leaving him pots of glitter and glue to decorate with in the evening.

When they returned home, though, from their anniversary trip, Vince made the suggestion.  They closed the shop half an hour early that night, so they could sort through all the pictures they took. 

The background papers occupied a range of bright blues and yellows, and Vince refrained from alternating these with anything metallic.  Howard offered to dig up his photo album, which held copies of  _ every _ picture of them together.  Or at least the ones he was aware of; Vince had perfected the art of leaning in close while Howard was reading or cooking or doing anything other than giving Vince his full attention, and snapping a series on his mobile. 

They sat beside each other, behind the counter, exchanging photos and clippings of paper.  Howard had managed to find his photo album, which Vince promptly called ‘ridiculous’ but still glanced at fondly while they worked. 

“You’ve got ones from  _ all  _ our holidays!”

“Yeah,” said Howard.  “I thought they might be nice to look back on later.”

“You look at ‘em a lot?”

“Don’t have to,” Howard rolled a pritt stick to his side of the table, “you’re still with me.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to tumblr-buddy @thegroovyarchives for the idea of Howard trying Vince's drinks :)


End file.
